


Home on the Wastes

by gayspaceelf



Series: Old Lands, New Frontiers [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Bar Room Brawl, Gen, Pre-Canon, Tattoos, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-26 06:18:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7563574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayspaceelf/pseuds/gayspaceelf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>His name is Sam McNeil and he hates Novac.</i>
</p><p>Mostly pre-canon trans man Courier finds his way in the Mojave</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home on the Wastes

His name is Sam McNeil and he hates Novac. But that’s alright, because Novac hates him too. It’s too quiet, too isolated, he tells himself. His father might be comfortable here, tending to their brahmin day in, day out, but Sam is meant for something else. For something more, he whispers to himself sometimes, hoping that if he says the words right he’ll start to act on them. He needs to leave, because Novac isn’t big enough for the one of him.

He knows how Jeannie May Crawford looks at him when she thinks he isn’t looking, and sometimes when she knows he is. Sometimes, like now, he can overhear what she says to his father. The ground is hard against his knees, even through the thick denim, as he kneels, resting his head just below the open window. 

He’s missed the start of this conversation, but he can guess enough to fill in the gaps. Jeannie May can barely hide the disgust behind her voice, even as she feigns concern.

“Sam’s a troublemaker”, he hears her say, and he can feel his chest clench with white hot rage, even as she mercifully shortens his name. “Doesn’t care for Novac, doesn’t care for our community, goes out of the way to be rude.” 

It’s true, Sam thinks, and the rage turns to something almost like guilt. Novac is an unimportant hamlet, dependent on people who bring it water. Novac is dying, and soon it will be dead, and he refuses to let it bury him with it.

His father says nothing for a few moments. Then he speaks two words.

“I know.”

\--

His name is Sam, and nobody here knows him. And that’s how he likes it. He’s shoved back first against the wall of a casino and his nose is bleeding and he is laughing even as the casino guard presses a switchblade against his cheek.

“What’s so fucking funny?” the guard hisses at him, clenched teeth like the sun-bleached bones of some small animal, and all he can do is laugh even harder, even as he feels the tightly bound fabric around his torso constrict against his ribs.

“You can’t prove anything”, he says, and his voice makes him flinch because it’s too high, but what he says is true. They can’t. Because he didn’t cheat and he never cheats. He’s just lucky, and sometimes he tells himself it’s the universe apologising for dealing him such a fucking awful hand. And if that belated luck helps him win three hundred caps at blackjack, then that’s even better. 

Some of the other patrons are looking over at them now, and he knows exactly how this looks. This isn’t The Strip, but it’s The Strip for people who can’t get in, and among the soft clothes and washed faces, he knows how he looks, all harsh cheekbones and dirty face and patched together armour. He doesn’t care though, because at this point he has no shame. The doctor who offered to help him needs to get paid, and out of the things he’s done for caps, this is nowhere near the worst.

“Look”, he says, smoothing his voice. “I don’t want any more trouble. Just let me cash my chips and I’ll leave.”

There’s a sharp pain against his cheekbone and he knows that it’s going to scar.

\--

His name is Samuel, and the homemade shiv that his partner digs into his skin over and over was a bad idea, but it’s two weeks’ journey to an actual shop, and he doesn’t have the caps to pay. 

The man stops working for a moment and looks at him with a flash of sympathy behind his eyes, but Samuel doesn’t need it. Life as a mercenary has been kind to him, but not too kind. His body is a patchwork of scars and burns, and he can feel the most recent wound, roughly sewn up, but still raw. The tattoo barely registers against it.  


He grunts and his head dips slightly, and he can feel his stubble rub against the bare skin of his neck. 

“You okay with me continuing?” his partner asks. His voice is lower than normal, steady with an almost-offer, and Samuel thinks briefly about the feel of skin against skin, and then how young the guy looks. He’s new, not so new that the Mojave and their company haven’t started to break him in, but new enough that Samuel isn’t sure he remembers the kid’s name.  


“Yeah”, Samuel says, and his voice is steady and emotionless. “Keep going.”

They’re in the backroom of some shitty saloon that he’ll forget the name of as soon as he leaves town, and they aren’t alone any more, but it’s alright, because Samuel’s shotgun is eternally close to him, and he can feel the weight of the barrel against his leg as the woman approaches them. 

She looks like a jackrabbit staring down the barrel of a gun, all wide eyed and nervous twitching, and he knows she’s either here to ask them to leave or hire them. He hopes it’s the second, because he really needs some caps. 

“You the Sloperunner boys?” she asks as she reaches the table, and her voice trembles as the two of them turn their eyes towards her. The kid opens his mouth to speak, only to shut it as Samuel glances at him through narrowed eyes.

“Yeah. What’s it to you?”

She swallows before she speaks.

“I have a job for you.”

\--

He doesn’t know his name, and when Doctor Mitchell asks, he sits in silence for a few moments, trying to remember who he is.

It doesn't really matter though, he murmurs. Because he knows what he needs to do.


End file.
